


The Potter of the Ages

by A_Starry_Night



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Star Wars Legends - All Media Types
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 13:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9551678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A_Starry_Night/pseuds/A_Starry_Night
Summary: The Dark Lord captures the Boy Who Lived and condemns him to death. When forced through the veil in the Department of Mysteries, however, Harry doesn't find himself in the afterlife. He finds himself on the planet Coruscant.





	1. Chapter 1

“Chapter 1”

~/~/~/~/~

”… there was a raised stone dias in the center of the lowered floor, and upon the dais stood a stone archway that looked so ancient, cracked, and crumbling that Harry was amazed that the thing was still standing. Unsupported by any surrounding wall, the archway was hung with a tattered black curtain or veil which, despite the stillness of the cold surrounding air, was fluttering very slightly as though it had just been touched…. He had the strangest feeling that there was someone standing right behind the veil on the other side of the archway… he edge around the dais, but there was nobody there…. He did not move. He had just heard something. There were faint whispering, murmuring voices coming from the other side of the veil.”

Chapter 34, “the Department of Mysteries”, OotP

~/~/~/~/~

It was a victorious procession that went in secret to the ministry of Magic on the eve of the summer of 1996. Finally, Lord Voldemort—the Darkest wizard Britain had seen in six centuries—had finally succeeded in his goal of the past fourteen years.

He had captured the Boy Who Lived.

Stroking his wand in delight, his snake Nagini wrapped around his shoulders, Voldemort turned his cold red eyes onto the smallest, and youngest, person there. Standing amongst such tall, burly men all who were all dressed in black with expressionless masks hiding their faces, Harry Potter looked small and meek as he walked—or stumbled and limped was more like it—held in the Death Eaters’ grasps. At fifteen years of age, he was small and slight, his wild black hair was matted with blood which ran from a cut on his hairline and crusted along his face; beneath sweat-slick bangs, pained emerald eyes still managed to glare hatefully at him, effectively chasing away the agony he was clearly in.

Voldemort felt a vindictive smile spread across his face, pleased to have caused such physical and mental pain. He had tortured Potter, had made him scream until he couldn’t even speak. Blood, both dried and wet, stained his ripped clothing from the deep gashes etched into his torso; his right leg was stiff and painful from another cut in his thigh, and he was sure Potter’s body ached from the Cruciatus Curses that had been set upon him.

Silently, the Dark company made its way through the large, spacious rooms and halls of the Ministry, down through the dark corridors and finally into the Department of Mysteries.

Specifically, into the Death Room, where the ancient archway still sat with its tattered black veil fluttering in a nonexistent wind. Voldemort knew that Potter would loath the room, and what its doorway stood for—what it had done—and would undoubtedly cause him an emotional agony the Dark Lord himself would never hope to cause. It was in this room that the boy had lost Sirius Black through the archway, which, as far as Voldemort knew, was a way directly into the Afterlife. Of course he would never try to discover whether that was true or not, and he certainly not going to step through himself. Nobody had ever come back through the archway, so they must have gone somewhere permanently. Voldemort liked to think it was a link to Hell—it caused him so much pleasure to think of souls screaming in pain as they burned in the lake of everlasting sulfur eternally.

Sure enough, as soon as Potter’s eyes fell upon the stone archway, his eyes became shadowed with grief, looking at the thing that had led to his beloved godfather’s death. There was, also, a hint of understanding there as well, and the Dark Lord realized that the boy knew what was going to happen. He could see fear swimming in those emerald eyes, exhaustion, pain, but there was also acceptance.

Small though it might be, a part of Potter almost yearned for death.

When finally all of the Death Eaters were gathered around, Voldemort stepped forward, where Potter stood before the archway, so small, so utterly helpless, and smiled. Potter flinched ever so slightly, fearing that smile, disgusted by it. To Harry it made Voldemort’s face so inhuman, so twisted and horrid, truly the stuff of nightmares. Was there even anything remotely human left in the snake-like creature standing before him?

Did it even truly matter?

“As you can see, Potter,” the Dark Lord said now, and he began to circle the boy slowly, as if sizing him up. Harry watched him warily, fearful that Voldemort may do something else to his already-torn body, “I have brought you here to make a choice.”

“A choice?” His voice was raspy from misuse and screaming, still wary, almost sarcastic. There was never any choice in Voldemort’s propositions—it was either one thing, or nothing at all. You did not simply say “no” to the Dark Lord Voldemort. Ever.

“Of course, Potter. A choice.” He chuckled, sending a shiver of fear down the young wizard’s spine, and then abruptly became serious again. Deadly so. “A choice of deaths. You see this archway—I propose to you that either you walk through it on your own violation, or I kill you myself in less… quick… means.” He watched Potter flinch again, trembling at the thought of more torture. He smiled again. “So, Potter. Which will it be?”

Harry looked up in Voldemort’s red eyes and knew the win-win scenario in the Dark Lord’s favor—whatever he chose, it would end in a victory for the Death Eaters. Wizarding Britain would not win. He could only hope that the Order of the Phoenix would give Voldemort more of a struggle than he thought they would be able to.   
He hung his head, thinking about Ron and Hermione, the Weasleys, Hogwarts, all the places he knew and loved, the people who he was sure were mourning him, believing he was already dead. It hurt to remember them, knowing they would never know what had happened to him besides the fact that he had been captured. But he couldn’t be too upset, thinking that if this archway was a path to death, then he would at least be with his parents and with Sirius again. Would that be such a bad thing?

He shut his eyes briefly then swallowed hard. Looked up at Voldemort. “I’ll walk,” he whispered softly, so quietly that he could be barely heard.

Voldemort smiled again. “Good,” he hissed. He stepped aside so that Harry saw the archway. “Go on, Potter. Be with your Mudblood mother and your wretched mutt of a godfather.”

The walk to the archway seemed to take forever. Harry could feel the Death Eaters’ eyes upon him, his footsteps echoing eerily in the silence. He thought he could feel a cold draft caressing his face as he walked up to it and could hear the voices whispering.

Without hesitation, he stepped through.


	2. Chapter 2

All the world's a stage,   
And all the men and women merely players:   
They have their exits and their entrances;   
And one man in his time plays many parts.  
-William Shakespeare

~/~/~/~/~

Everything seemed to pass in a whir. Somehow, impossibly, Harry felt a jerk very similar to a Portkey draw him forward; everything was blurred, he seemed to be spinning into nothing, until finally he realized he was in fact passing through what seemed to be images and moments in time—but in a life and universe he did not recognize. He saw strange peoples, all aliens, some with horns, others with extensions growing from their heads, others human. Some fired guns, others held staff-like weapons—and others fought with swords that shone with energy. He saw glimpses of wars, of times of peace. Planets burned, were rebuilt, collapsed, and new were created.

This all passed in an instant, and suddenly with a terrible jolt that left him breathless, Harry felt himself thrown forward, almost like whatever it was that held him had snapped. Everything went black for a moment, and he floundered in the crushing oblivion, unable to cry out or make a sound, before finally falling into a dim light that seemed fuzzy and unclear. He felt more than heard the impact of the ground—his hearing seemed to have been jumbled by whatever he had passed through. The breath left his body in a jolt, and he couldn’t even scream as the pain of his wounds flared, shooting along his bones, as his lungs seized in his chest. For a long moment, he couldn’t do anything but lay there in a senseless shock, feeling his heart flying in his throat but unable to do anything. Finally, though, he fought through the agony of his body and thrust it aside. This couldn’t possibly be the Afterlife—he didn’t think it would be this painful, and besides, he didn’t feel dead.

Where was he?

Gasping, panting for air, he struggled up on his hands and knees, looking around. His eyesight was clearing, even if his head was still pounding and his ears were ringing. He seemed to be in a run-down hovel lit by dirty sunlight shining through shattered windows, deserted by everyone and everything. Gathering his waning strength, wondering what he had gotten himself into, he dragged himself up on shaky legs and managed to limp out of the small shack, noticing with shock the surrounding buildings. They didn’t look like anything he had seen before, even if most were crumbling and covered with strange yellow ivy crawling up the walls. Everywhere he looked he saw city, and not just this small section of old town. There were tall steel skyscrapers reaching up far into the sky, consisting of hundreds upon thousands of floors, glinting in the sunlight of a large golden sun that was clearly beginning its descent in the sky. But it was what was in the air that made him gape and wonder if he had, in fact, finally lost his mind.

There were car-like structures actually flying through the alleyways skyscrapers, millions of them as far as he could tell, all like Muggle cars on a street- except these were flying! It seemed that these things were perfectly natural, since no one seemed shocked by this occurrence, but he nearly lost his ability to stand as he realized—  
He had no idea where he was. This couldn’t be the Afterlife, this wasn’t natural, not human.

“Son?”

The deep, gravelly voice caused him to spin on his heel, gasping as his body exploded in pain again, and came face to face with an alien face. It was a male as far as he could tell, but its skin was a light red, with dark bluish-black hair and dark black eyes. He was dressed in a smart, military-issue outfit colored a dark blue and calf-length leather boots. Harry stumbled back a step, his eyes widening in shock.

The man frowned, and started to reach for him. “Son, if you need some help—“

But then he recoiled with a cry because Harry, having realized he had his wand in his possession, had drawn it and aimed a Stinging Jinx at the soldier. He was frightened, confused, and didn’t want to have anyone touching him, and the pain of his body threw all caution to the winds. Even as the alien drew back in shock, he turned again and ran as best as he could with his stiff leg. 

The soldier, astonished and angered, drew out his comlink. “Attention, all Guards in Sections 800 to 810, we have a young human, male, badly injured, running through the Undercity. Orders to all who happen to find him—restrain, but do not harm. Warning—the male has a weapon!”

~/~/~/~/~

There was a ripple of unrest in the Force. Something had upset its balance, as if a door had opened and then swung closed just as quickly. There was a presence out there among Coruscant’s citizens that had not been there before. Even from here, fear and pain could be sensed pouring into the Force, boiling in its intensity. Not Sith, not even totally Dark, just… human. Simple human instinct.

It was worrying.

Seated in the meditation chambers of the Jedi Temple on Coruscant, Grand Master Luke Skywalker of the Jedi opened his eyes, frowning in concentration and confusion. He thought he was probably the only Jedi who could sense the emotions, since they were so faint, and since he was better at sensing emotion than most. It had him concerned, why he didn’t exactly know. Was it the Force telling him that he had to do something? Or was it only his own thoughts pulling him in different directions? Should he send out a team of Jedi Knights to go find this mysterious person?

No. He ruled that possibility out. If Coruscant’s military guard needed help, they would call. Jedi were not called for simple capture—they were not a police force, however much some senators seemed to think so. He could only wait.

Besides, he had other things to worry about, like the newest missions for the Knights and Masters, of Cal Omas’s growing distrust of the Jedi, and of what he was going to do about his son Ben joining the flying squadrons a little over a month ago. Ben had wanted to go, even more than he had wanted to train as a Jedi, and so Luke and his wife Mara, determined to let their son grow into his choices, had allowed him to. Luke seriously hoped that the choice would not lead to evil later.

He sighed. He needed to stop becoming so stressed—soon he would become more grey-headed than blonde if he didn’t calm down more. Of course, ever since blasting out of Mos Eisley spaceport almost thirty years ago, he had felt that time had never slowed down. He found it surprising that he was even almost fifty at times, sure that he should have died multiple times over the years.

He felt a familiar presence come up to his door, and he turned in time to find Corran Horn, one of the most experienced Jedi Masters there, standing breathless. “Master Skywalker,” he said hurriedly, “I apologize for my interruption…”

“What is it, Master Horn?”

Corran shook his head. “The Guard sent the Jedi word—there’s a rogue human male causing trouble in the Underworld levels. They can’t get close enough to him to stop him, and he’s becoming dangerous.”

Luke stood, feeling his gut tighten as he recalled the fear and pain he had felt through the Force. “I’ll gather some of our best Masters and we’ll go help. Will you prepare our speeders?”

“Yes, Master Skywalker.”

“Good. Go, quickly.” And as Corran turned and left at a run, Luke turned briefly to the large windows of the Temple, deep in contemplation, before he followed Corran out the door, preparing to call his wife through his comm.

000000000

The Jedi swiftly flew through Coruscant’s traffic, deftly avoiding crashes and other obstacles that would have hindered ordinary drivers. They weren’t called Jedi for nothing, however, so they didn’t worry. Leading them was Luke and his wife Mara Jade, Luke driving, while Mara looked at him with hard emerald eyes.

“So all this is for a kid?”

“That’s what Colonel Maxell said,” Luke nodded, his eyes fixed on the traffic speeding by. “From what he told me it was a boy, probably younger than twenty, small, slight, badly injured. The Colonel found him wal- well, limping through the Undercity and when he tried to grab the boy’s arm, he was attacked. The kid turned and ran. The other soldiers can’t get close to him, they’re being hindered by something, but they don’t know by what.”

Mara shook her head. “I don’t like it, Skywalker. It’s just too odd, even for us.”

He grinned. “Who says? I can think of ten things stranger than some kid attacking Coruscant Guard.” He was trying to forget the odd ripples of the Force he had felt before. It wasn’t working very well, and clearly Mara saw that too because she glared, opening her mouth to speak.

Then a tremendous bang! echoed through the air, and Luke had to swerve as a man suddenly came flying into the traffic. Cursing, he turned the speeder into a roll, and Mara, ready, flung herself from her seat and onto the roof of the building that was luckily now below them. As Luke struggled to not crash, she rolled up to a crouching position and came face to face with the adversary they were supposed to fight. Before she could even draw her lightsaber, however, she heard a young voice say something and suddenly she flew backwards through the air, landing at least ten feet away on the hard stone roof, the breath knocked out of her. Even as she landed, three other Masters—Kyp Durron, Corran Horn, and Saba Sabetyne—tried to come at the stranger, but all were held back somehow by a barrier. Then Kyp and Saba fell back like Mara, while Corran pressed forward.

Luke, landing the speeder behind their adversary, leaped out of it, checking to see that Mara and the others were all right. When he saw they were getting their bearings straight, he went forward, preparing to strike, when suddenly the boy turned to him, and he almost stopped mid-leap. Looking at him was a boy no older than his own son, small and thin and slight, with an unmanageable mess of blood-matted raven black hair and glasses. He looked roughed-up, all right, and beaten—his face was covered with bruises and his clothing, so odd in their pattern and faded coloring, was ripped and bloody. His pain and anger lit up the Force like a beacon. With unbelievable reflexes, the boy swung up what Luke thought to be a simple rod of wood.

“Protego!”

Luke braced himself for an attack, ready for defense, but to his surprise nothing came—and then he discovered what had happened when the boy had spoken. He hit a clear shield, strong yet utterly invisible, so strong his lit lightsaber could not penetrate it. Stunned, he bounced off the impossible barrier and landed on the ground in an awkward crouch, completely baffled by this unexpected occurrence. Mara, her own shock rippling through the Force, reached out to him and asked if he was all right. Luke sent her a mental nod and stood, regaining his control.

“We’re not going to harm you,” he said as gently as he could, unsure if the boy would even be able to understand Basic. He hoped that communication was possible—they needed to stop the rampage before someone actually got injured… or before the boy burnt himself out.

But the boy only glared at him, his eyes bright with anger and pain. “Coming after me with a weapon… isn’t hostile?” he snapped in an unsteady voice, and again Luke was surprised at how young he seemed, and how much agony he seemed to be in. He needed medical attention; the bright red stains on his clothing were spreading, and his body was trembling—his leg looked like it was going to collapse beneath him at any moment, and Luke realized they wouldn’t need to worry about fighting much longer.

Sure enough, even as Luke thought that, the boy paled as the pain of his wounds caught up with him as adrenaline started to ebb, surely feeling dizzy with blood loss. The invisible barrier was flickering, weakening as well, and the Jedi Masters all tensed in preparation.

Bad mistake. The stranger seemed to sense this and his Force aura sharpened with fear. The barrier fell and even as the Jedi moved forward, the boy swerved to the side, slipping somehow between the others, and called out another word that was garbled by the speeders going by. To the astonishment of the Jedi, ropes suddenly sprang into existence and wrapped themselves around Kyp, who cried out in anger and struggled against them. He couldn’t throw them off, however, not even with the Force behind his grip. With a growl of anger, Saba leaped forward, but was thrown off by the barrier again.

But it was Mara who dealt the final blow. With the quick skills taught to her by Emperor Palpatine, she weaved through the crowd and as Saba retreated, she crept up on the boy and with a quick swipe she struck the boy on the side of his head with her lightsaber hilt.

He collapsed immediately, his legs buckling beneath him as he crumpled to the ground in a heap. As quickly as he fell, the power that the Jedi could sense dissipated like it had never been, and the Jedi Masters were left standing over the body of a kid who was hurt and bleeding.

~/~/~/~/~

“The power he produced!” Kyp exclaimed in shock twenty minutes later as they walked into the med center. They had left the boy in the hands of the EmDee droid there; Saba and Corran had gone back to the Temple while Luke, Mara, and Kyp had stayed to know the boy’s condition.

Luke nodded. “I know, Kyp,” he said softly. “I just hope he’s not too badly injured. He’s so young…”

“Yet old enough to attack us,” Mara countered, her eyes hard—they had been ever since she had knocked the stranger out. It was clear she was not giving him the benefit of the doubt, not like Luke was.

“He didn’t actually harm us,” he protested. “He only tried to protect himself—you know that, Mara!”

“Yes,” Kyp interjected sarcastically, “he only used power we know nothing about. Come on, Master Skywalker! Even if the kid didn’t actually harm us, you know that we can’t take this lightly. He has power that we’ve never seen, that we haven’t heard of before. Yeah, I can’t deny he didn’t actually harm us, but neither can you deny that he wasn’t pouring anger into the Force—which, as we all know, is a Dark emotion. He seemed to allow it to lead him—like a Sith.”

Luke stiffened and even Mara frowned at such a statement. “Kyp, even if I agree that he’s dangerous,” she said, “I can’t see him being a Sith. He didn’t fight like one. I don’t even think he has access to the Force at all.”

“He doesn’t need it.”

Luke’s softly-spoken statement caused both Jedi to stop speaking and simultaneously they turned to him. He wasn’t looking at them—instead he sat stiffly in his seat, his brow drawn into a frown. His Force presence was tight, and his diamond blue eyes were thoughtful as he thought. Finally:

“I don’t believe he is Dark. Yes, he allowed his anger to lead him, but the point still stands that he didn’t allow it to harm anyone.” He shifted, and his gaze lost focused as he contemplated—or looked at a vision. “There’s something about him…” he murmured, his left hand clenching slightly. “A sense of destiny…”

Mara looked sharply at him and opened her mouth to speak—

“Masters Skywalker? Master Durron?”

The automated voice of the EmDee caught their attention and they looked up at the same time to find the droid standing before them. One arm gestured in its halting way to the entrance of the room. “The patient is stable, and lucid.”

“Lucid?” Mara asked, shocked. “Shouldn’t his wounds have kept him unconscious for several hours, if not a couple of days?” Beside her, Luke and Kyp shared a glance.

“Yes,” came the reply. “That is what is so odd, Master Skywalker. The patient should have been under for twenty-six standard hours, eight minutes, and thirty-five seconds. He woke up halfway through our exam and had to be sedated. As the Guard placed the patient under your judgment, I must ask you to come and speak with him.”

“You can’t just send him to sleep to keep healing him?” Kyp asked.

The EmDee’s voice grew slightly cold. “No. We have tried to give him stronger sleeping medicine, but there seems to be something preventing him from being affected. I need to point out, too, that the patient seems to be rather wild. Things have been flying around in the room without any clear sign why.”

“Come again?” Luke asked, astounded.

“Yes. Much like one of your Jedi powers. It has been decided that the patient cannot be helped here. We ask that you and your Order take him.” There was obvious reluctance even in a droid’s monotonous voice, and the three Jedi could tell even without aid of the Force that the Emdee was unhappy about discharging a patient.

Luke stood. “All right. We’ll go see him.”

The room the droid led them to smelled of bacta salve and antiseptics, and was as white and immaculately clean as they always were. The boy lay limply on one of the gurney-like cots there, his Force aura pulsing gently—but it was cold, shocked. Luke wondered if it was because of the sedative. They were watched warily by their new charge as they approached; they were careful to keep their hands in plain view so he didn’t feel threatened. Nevertheless he tensed visibly the closer they came, until finally his Force aura twisted with quickly-suppressed fear. And curiosity. Confusion. 

Luke spoke first. “It seems you aren’t a very good patient, son,” he said quietly. He felt more than heard Mara’s sarcastic snort, and could practically feel her smirk at his words. Farmboy… He sent a quick blast of irritation her way, telling her now was not the time, and continued. “The Jedi have been asked to take you under our wing, so we’ll need to leave soon. How are your wounds?”

The boy frowned, as if confused he was asked such a question. He didn’t speak, but Luke could tell by the heavy bandages that the wounds were going to need a lot more than salve. They didn’t seem to be bleeding, though, which was a very good thing.

He sighed. “What’s your name, son?”

He watched the boy’s eyes flash with irritation and his Force essence tightened. Finally, however: “Harry Potter.” He spoke it so quietly that the Jedi almost missed it.  
“I’m Jedi Luke Skywalker,” Luke replied softly, and motioned to his companions, “and this is my wife Mara, and Kyp Durron, both Jedi as well.”

“I’m being watched by the very people who attacked me?”

The sarcastic question caused Kyp to stiffen, but a warning glance from Luke stopped him from speaking. Mara refrained from rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry that we had to do that, Harry,” Luke apologized with genuine regret, “but as Jedi we are guardians of peace and order. The Guard could not get close enough to you to stop your rampage—in which you caused many people harm and several crashes. So we were called to help. Disruption on such a scale will not and cannot be tolerated.”

“All right, Skywalker,” Mara interrupted impatiently, her arms crossed over her chest. “Don’t go all “Jedi Master” on him, he’s had a rough day. Let’s just get him to the Temple and find out what the Force we’re going to do now.”


End file.
